


Home Secrets

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother Mycroft, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Captain John Watson, Confused Sherlock, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft IS the British Government, No Baby Rosie, No Mary Morstan, No Series 03, No Series 04, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Out of Character Sherlock, Sorry Not Sorry, What if John Watson knew?, What-If, kind of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: I have NO idea where this came from, just that it...came. Well, I kind of do. This was inspired by a Headcanon entry I found ages ago. What if, after The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock fell into a coma, John pulled himself together, talked TO Mycroft instead of tearing him to shreds for the whole Moriarty mess, got the truth, and decided to do something useful? I mean, I've read so many awesome fics where John's got a "secret" history in Special Forces, I figured why not? That's kind of where this came from. John Watson isn't just a friendly, easy-going, jumper-loving Army doctor with deadly aim (that kinda happens when you're a sniper), he's got history and the credentials to prove it. So, this is what MIGHT have happened if Sherlock, unable to help himself or anyone else, wasn't the one moving across Europe and the world taking apart Moriarty's network (if there really WAS one to begin with), and instead it was John, Mycroft, and Lestrade. Yes, I put Lestrade in here, too. I love the unassuming side-kicks doing BAMF things, so have my weird offering. Like or hate it, let me know!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Italics = phone/radio conversation
> 
> Bold = text  
> ***  
> Code-names:
> 
> 1\. Antarctica = Mycroft Holmes (the ONLY thing I will ever willingly use, with very few exceptions, from the clusterfuck that was Series 4 is Mycroft's code-name)  
> 2\. Einstein = Sherlock Holmes (because why the fuck not? Why not? He's a genius!)  
> 3\. Hedgehog = John Watson (same principle as Sherlock. We all know John's really just a cute, angry little hedgehog who loves cozy jumpers and jam on toast with tea)  
> 4\. Silver Fox = Greg Lestrade (if this needs explaining, as if ANY of these do, I don't know what to tell you. Have you SEEN Lestrade? Just go look. Go. Go now. Bask. Drool. Cry. And then come back here.)  
> ***  
> The Headcanon that inspired this is included at the top of the story.

 

* * *

* * *

His watch, replaced twice in the past eighteen months alone, read a quarter to midnight as John Watson stepped out of the taxi and went around to the boot to fetch his bags. One deployment bag, a duffel bag, and a battered drop-bag. As he slammed the boot shut after collecting his things, he looked up at the sky and frowned. Well, at least the moon was full. Shouldering the drop-bag and duffel, he picked up the deployment bag and headed for the familiar black door. Without looking over his shoulder, he dug out his keys and quietly unlocked the door, pushing it open with one foot. He had already scouted his immediate surround as soon as he’d gotten out, and there was no danger on Baker Street tonight. Exhausted from the long flight to get home to London, he trudged up the worn, familiar seventeen steps to 221B. Years of military service and his more recent assignments had trained him to move quietly and he knew he wouldn't wake his diligent, sweet landlady. The door was closed, of course, and the flat was dark. Stifling a groan, John avoided the living-room for the moment and went upstairs to the second-floor bedroom he had lived in for a little less than two years. He didn’t bother to unpack, but he stacked his bags neatly to one side of the bed and left again without turning on any of the lights. Without bothering to change his clothes, John left the house as quietly as he’d entered it, locking the door behind him. Climbing into the 2012 Vauxhall Antara he’d bought a year after The Fall, John headed for the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery.

Parking at The Imperial Hotel, where he held a quarterly parking permit, he walked from the underground lot to the hospital. By now he could practically do the entire route and routine in his sleep. Had, once, according to Greg Lestrade. John knew he would find the man he needed to talk to the most here, there were only a few places he ever went anymore. The nurses were used to John visiting at all hours, in all manner of outfit, so the sight of him walking down the unit hallways in khaki fatigues and a drop-leg holster didn’t turn many heads. Very few people actually noticed him, and those who did didn’t seem surprised. Coming to a room he had visited innumerable times over the years, John took a moment to smooth and straighten his fatigues, set the emerald grey beret of his regiment at the correct angle before he tapped on the door, pushing it open when he received an acknowledgment from inside and looked into the room lit only by a wall-mounted bedside lamp.

“Sir?”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft Holmes looked up at him from his perch at the bedside, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, “He is…showing some improvement. The neurologists think he will wake up any day now.”

“That’s better than the last time I was home.” John stood at the bedside, leaning over the still, pale figure of his best friend and mad flatmate. A man unable to defend himself against enemies and slander, whom John and a small network of dedicated agents had spent the past four years since November 20th of 2011 protecting the best way they knew how. John quickly examined Sherlock Holmes, determined his state of health, and turned his focus to the brother. The ex-RAMC surgeon was fairly certain that he was one of two people who ever saw Mycroft Holmes so undone. The usually pristine suit was rumpled and wrinkled, the fair freckled skin sallow and bruised under the eyes with dark circles, his eyes themselves were dim and unfocused, his hair ruffled and unkempt. John sighed and did something he usually couldn't get away with and rested one hand briefly on the bowed head. This last mission of his, really the severance of the final link in Jim Moriarty’s chain of command and the unravelling of his web of crime and intrigue, had cleared the way for the next steps to be taken safely for Sherlock’s name to be cleared in court and in public forum.

“God bless you, John Watson.” Mycroft sighed, leaning back a bit. John smiled and flexed his fingers.

“That’s not what my marks said about me, those who got a look at my face before I eliminated them.” He shrugged. “Funny how they all underestimated me so badly.”

“To their severe demise.” Mycroft leant his head back, “How is your arm?”

“Getting it x-rayed tomorrow. Not broken, I’m pretty damn sure.”

“If a fractured arm is truly the worst of your injuries on this mad hunt, you are in truth a remarkable man.”

“I don’t know if I’m remarkable, just…awfully good at the job most people don’t know I can do. And it’s by far the _least_ of the injuries I’ve sustained.” He moved his hand down to Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezed gently, “I sleep light these nights, Mycroft. I’ll look after Sherlock.”

“I can’t…”

“Go _home,_ Mycroft, and get some sleep. You need it badly. Tomorrow, take a hot shower and clean yourself up.” He rubbed his face with his right hand, wincing as a twinge reminded him of the injury, “Please, Myc? I really don’t need a nasty phone call from M yelling at me because I let you out of here for work looking like you haven’t slept in a month or eaten a solid meal in two.” The only sound in the silence that fell between them was the soft, consistent chiming of the monitors tracking Sherlock’s vital-signs. John fully expected Mycroft to be as stubborn as ever, and was prepared to stand his ground. Finally, Mycroft nodded and got unsteadily to his feet. Heaving a sigh of relief, John slipped Mycroft’s phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and fired off a text to his driver to bring the car around to the front of the hospital and wait on Queen’s Way for them. As they passed by the nursing station, he tapped on the desk.

“I’ll be back in a bit, I’m taking Mr Holmes home for the night.” He said once he had their attention. Two nurses manned the station, the rest did their rounds of the unit.

“Yes, sir. We’ll let you know if anything changes before you get back.” The nurse on duty smiled at him, watching them leave. John couldn’t help shaking his head. The nurses were always flirting with him, some were better at it than others, but he was not interested. Mycroft chuckled, knowing exactly what was going on.

“They never learn, do they?”

“Well, I can finally take this thing off its chain, so maybe they’ll get the point now.” He reached under the collar of his shirt and pulled on the chain of his dog tags. Holding the chain in his teeth, he slipped the clasp off and carefully slid a silver band off the chain itself. Once he had the ring in his hand, he secured the chain, tucked the tags back under his shirt, and quietly slipped the ring onto his left hand. “Doubt it will make much difference to those determined to have me, but at least I can wear it again.” As they stepped out onto Queen’s Way, he spotted the town car parked in the ambulance lane. They were spotted and the driver hopped out to hold the door for them.

“Major.”

“Thank you, Erasema.” He smiled at the young woman, “Earl’s Court, please.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded, closed the door as soon as he was in, and got underway once they were settled.

“You treat my drivers well, John.”

“Of course I do.” He looked out the window as a quiet city passed in a blur, “And considering I’ve vetted all of them, I know I can trust them.” Mycroft huffed and fell asleep after a while. He rarely slept in the car, so he really was exhausted. John sighed and pulled his phone from a pocket. He had replaced the ragged thing he’d owned when he and Sherlock had first met and there were only a few numbers in his contacts. He had his team, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Greg Lestrade. A few of his Army buddies were there as well, and Mike Stamford always. Pulling up the texting window, he tapped out a quick message to Greg, who was supposed to be asleep right now.

 

 **Text to Silver Fox: (sent 00:25)**  
**Taking Antarctica home for the night. No change in Einstein’s status, still stable. More responsive, not awake yet.**  
**– Hedgehog**

  
It wasn’t until they had pulled up at Mycroft’s house on Earl’s Court Road that he got a response, which had him rolling his eyes. He wasn’t expecting a response at all, the idiot. Shaking his head, he helped Mycroft out of the car with assistance from Erasema, who was very good at her job. Once inside the house, he dismissed Erasema, who disappeared after resetting the security system and offering to wait for John.

“I won’t be long, just hold the car for me.” He said quietly as he got under the Mycroft’s shoulder and guided him through the dark house and upstairs to his bedroom, where he put him to bed. Removing the rumpled suit, everything from his jacket to his socks, leaving him in undershirt and pants, John tucked Mycroft into bed after dosing him with Ativan to help him sleep. Once he was sure the elder brother was handled, John left the house and had Erasema take him back to the hospital. On the drive back, he read Greg’s text and chuckled.

 

 **Text to Hedgehog: (sent 01:10)**  
**Were you expecting a change? Why aren’t you at home?**  
**– Silver Fox**

 

 **Text to Silver Fox: (sent 01:20)**  
**Why aren’t YOU asleep? I sent you home two hours ago, for Christ’s sake! GO TO SLEEP, you won’t be of any use if you’re dead on your feet.**  
**– Hedgehog**

 **And I’ve already been to Baker Street, ta. Didn’t stick around, of course. Surprised?**  
**– Hedgehog**

 

 **Text to Hedgehog: (sent 01:23)**  
**Am I ever not surprised? How long have I known you? – Silver Fox**

 

 **Text to Silver Fox: (sent 01:24)**  
**And how long did it take you to figure out the rest of my history? Really, I don’t think you’re in a position to be pointing fingers, sir.**  
**– Hedgehog**

 **For the last fucking time, sleep.**  
**– Hedgehog**

 

Sending off that last text, he looked out the window as the car coasted to a stop outside the hospital. He nodded and pushed the door open.

“Thank you, Erasema. Go home for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Major.” He traded salutes with the girl and headed back into the hospital. It didn’t take long to get back to Sherlock’s room, and less than that when a nurse informed him that Sherlock had a guest. There were only a few people allowed at the bedside, if anyone had gotten through…He pushed the door open with his foot, both hands on his P226R, and he peeked around the door into the room.

“Oh, you fucking bastard.” He growled, shoving the door all the way open with his shoulder, “Damn it, Greg, I sent you home for the night! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are, apparently.” Greg Lestrade lowered his Glock as John clicked the safety on his gun, “Why did you come back?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I?” He gestured at the bed and its occupant as he closed the door with his heel, knowing better than to kick it shut, “I’ve sent everyone else home.”

“We can split the watch.” Greg shrugged and shoved the Glock into the drop-leg holster as John did the same, “Besides, what are the astronomical odds he’s going to wake up while any of us are watching?”

“It’s Sherlock, what do you think the odds are? He’s been aware since Christmas 2013, he could wake up any day now.”

“We could both use coffee, I’ll be back in a tick.” Greg slipped past him out of the room, patting him on the shoulder, “Gotta get that arm looked at, chief.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll stop by Bart’s tomorrow and get it taken care of.” He rolled his eyes and settled in the chair by the bedside, taking Sherlock’s limp hand in his, just glad it was warm. As soon as the door closed, he squeezed the fingers between his own, leaning over the bed, “Hey, I know you’re in there, you enormous berk. I keep talking to you, I know you can hear me. I’m not around much, but now I’m home for good. I don’t know what’s going on in that great massive head of yours, but I really hope I get you back soon, I miss you.” He rubbed the ring on Sherlock’s hand that matched his, “I need to explain this to you. Why I did it, how I made up my mind. If I’m lucky, that brilliant mind is intact and you’ll be right back to picking on me for being an idiot.” 

John rubbed his cheek across their joined hands, “I’m sick of doing this, Sherlock. Pretending like it doesn’t matter, yelling “Not Gay” every time somebody thinks we’re a couple. I gave up on that a long time ago, because it’s not really true. I’m not, but you knew that just looking at me. You shot me down pretty quick, but that’s because you’re a moron. My moron. My idiot. My genius.

“I didn’t risk my life and livelihood just for the hell of it, I did it to keep you safe. Me, Greg, Mycroft. A whole bunch of people. It’s all over, and the world you left behind is very different, and a whole hell of a lot safer. Just…please wake up soon, Sherlock, I miss everything. Baker Street’s too quiet.” John laughed and rested his head on his arms, “Yeah, I said that.” He talked to Sherlock, just…rambling, until Greg came back with coffee. It was good to be home, better to be safe, and he said a quick prayer for Sherlock’s swift recovery. Four years was a long time to be in a medically-induced coma, after all. At least he’d made the world a bit safer for Sherlock, and the chances of Moriarty or anyone of that network rising to bother them again were so slim it hardly registered on the radar as a blip. After all, John had pulled the trigger himself on Sebastian Moran. If there was anyone left, the sweeps would take care of them. It was time to rest, reorganise, and plan out his future. Whatever it turned out to be.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes wasn’t really a man for sleeping, it just wasn’t something he did much of, but he knew he’d slept quite a bit when he woke up in a hospital bed. He knew he was in a hospital bed just by the feel of things. And it wasn’t the first time, either. Judging by the headache, Sherlock guessed he had surfaced from a nasty overdose, in which case he was damn lucky to wake up at all. Taking stock, he judged that he was, in fact, alive and awake, so this wasn’t necessarily a dream, and listening brought him the sound of familiar voices. Who was that? He knew those voices. John Watson and…Greg Lestrade. What time was it? Forcing his eyes open, Sherlock looked around, trying to find something to focus on. He spotted Lestrade by the door, his back was to Sherlock as he spoke to someone. John, probably, given that there were only two voices he could hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is all from Sherlock's POV. He's missed a few important things and doesn't have a clue what actually happened while he was in the hospital. 
> 
> Nothing from S3 or S4 will be used, maybe a few tidbits here and there, but I personally didn't like S4 and S3 was...strange. Mentions of characters FROM S3 are made, like Mary Morstan and CAM, but not really dwelt upon. 
> 
> Basically, it's just Sherlock realizing that two of his most underappreciated friends are actually real-life BAMFs who did God knows what to keep him safe.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t really a man for sleeping, it just wasn’t something he did much of, but he knew he’d slept quite a bit when he woke up in a hospital bed. He knew he was in a hospital bed just by the feel of things. And it wasn’t the first time, either. Judging by the headache, Sherlock guessed he had surfaced from a nasty overdose, in which case he was damn lucky to wake up at all. Taking stock, he judged that he was, in fact, alive and awake, so this wasn’t necessarily a dream, and listening brought him the sound of familiar voices. Who was that? He knew those voices. John Watson and…Greg Lestrade. What time was it? Forcing his eyes open, Sherlock looked around, trying to find something to focus on. He spotted Lestrade by the door, his back was to Sherlock as he spoke to someone. John, probably, given that there were only two voices he could hear.

Despite blurry vision, he was able to make out what Lestrade was wearing and frowned. Khaki fatigues, the kind John had worn in the Army, the fatigues he was actually wearing right now, with a stable belt bearing the colours of the Royal Corps of Signals, a TRF patch for the Corps and a smaller patch beneath for his squadron. Sherlock couldn’t make it out, but it looked like either the 267 (Special Reconnaissance Regiment) Signal Squadron or 268 (United Kingdom Special Forces) Signal Squadron. He couldn’t see John’s TRF patch, his squadron flashes, or his stable belt, but Sherlock was pretty sure he knew what they would be, or…should be. Why…was Lestrade, of all people, in fatigues? Why was John? He caught sight of a beret tucked into a pocket on the trousers, a flash of emerald grey. Special Forces. Again? Something about this scene didn’t make sense, and it bothered Sherlock that he couldn't figure out what.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his voice a barely-audible whisper. He wasn’t sure if they’d heard him, or even knew he was awake until John looked up and caught sight of him. His flatmate broke into a bright, genuine smile.

“Sherlock! Hey, you’re awake!”

“Well, aren’t you a sight for some sore eyes!”

He was a little puzzled by their reactions. Why were they so happy to see him? It’s not like this was a first for any of them. Sherlock opened his mouth to demand answers, but never got the chance. John was fast on his feet and standing at Sherlock’s bedside before the groggy detective could blink. Now, he was used to John fussing over him after a bad run of things, but he still fidgeted while the patient doctor took his pulse and checked his pupils for proper dilation. He could have told John that his eyes weren’t going to react properly to light-stimulation, which they didn’t.

“Hmm. About what I’d expect.” John shrugged and turned away, one hand around Sherlock’s wrist, “Greg, can you call Mycroft for me, please? And find Doctor Edsel while you’re at it.”

“You got it, chief.” Greg actually saluted John, flashing Sherlock a bright smile, “Good to see you awake, Sherlock. Be right back!” Then the clever detective Sherlock had worked with for so long was gone again, leaving Sherlock with John. Now that he had John to himself, Sherlock studied his clothes. Same khaki fatigues Lestrade wore, different stable belt and TRF patch. Instead of the Signal Corps, John wore Royal Regiment of Fusiliers and Royal Army Medical Corps. But he had the UKSF patches on his sleeve as well. Special Reconnaissance Regiment. His head hurt and something wasn’t making sense. But what? His throat felt raw, so he asked for a drink using British Sign Language, which he was ever so grateful John could speak fluently. He couldn’t recall why John knew BSL, but he was very grateful he did, it was very useful.

“Sure! They had a tube down your throat for a long time, so I imagine you’re pretty parched. This should help.” John held out a cup with a straw and let him take a few sips of cool water. Drinking water had never felt so good. Lestrade popped back in after making that phone call, which hadn’t taken long at all.

“I thought you’d ranked back to Detective Inspector already.” He muttered, shaking his head. He was certain Lestrade was a Detective Inspector again after all that mess with Jim Moriarty. But his initial impression was that Lestrade no longer worked for The Met, likely hadn’t for a long time at this rate. The pair traded a look, a worried look.

“What?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John sighed, a familiar note of sadness in his voice. He usually heard it if he’d done something spectacularly stupid or John had come home from a rightfully horrific day only to have to put up with him and his madness. He had never appreciated that loyalty until he’d lost it all.

“Where’s Mary, John?”

“Who?”

“Mary.” He made a face, “Mary Morstan. She must miss you, doesn’t she?” Sherlock wasn’t paying attention and missed the expression on John’s face. The alarm, the worry. The blatant fury.

“Sherlock, how in hell’s name do _you_ know about Mary Morstan?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I know about Mary?” He looked up at the man who had lived with him for almost two years, followed him everywhere, trusted him implicitly, and promptly beat the shit out of him when he had the guts to carelessly reveal himself two years after faking his own death. Not that he hadn’t deserved it. Suddenly, Sherlock had the worst feeling that John knew the truth about Mary, that he hadn’t really burned the USB-stick.

“Whoa, Sherlock. Come back.” Hands were on his and he pulled out of his frantic recollection to find John sitting on the bed, holding onto Sherlock, “Come back to me, son. Don’t do that, Sherlock!”

“Do…what?”

“Your eyes went completely blank.” John looked up at him, a familiar expression of worry firmly in place, “Christ, Sherlock! What happened?”

“I…don’t know. You didn’t…I must have…” He was stuttering. Stammering. The great genius Sherlock Holmes had lost the ability to speak. It didn’t help that he was so hoarse, and the headache was blinding in its intensity.

“You’ve got a headache, love, I know you do.” John pressed rough fingertips to his temples and applied gentle pressure, rubbing small circles, “Oh, Sherlock, you poor thing. Take a deep breath and calm down, you’re about to bring every nurse on the unit into the room. We don’t need that.” Sherlock tried, he really did, and listened as the frantic chiming slowed down and stabilised as John’s touch worked magic.

“What happened, John?” He asked meekly once he could breathe again.

“Nothing nearly as exciting as whatever you thought up in your mind, Sherlock, I wish I could say my adventures these past four years have been any kind of work I enjoyed.” John’s hand was cool against his face, “I haven’t been back to Baker Street much, but Mrs Hudson wouldn’t take my key. She said I was going to need somewhere to stay between runs and like hell was I going to hole up in a bedsit or hotel room somewhere.”

“You stayed with me a few times, though.” Lestrade was on his feet behind them, arms folded across his chest, “And with Mycroft, too.”

“Hmm. That was usually to keep an eye on _him.”_ John’s eyes narrowed and Sherlock felt the tremor in his hands.

“John.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Jim Moriarty will never hurt us again, and neither will anyone associated with him.” John gave him some more water.

“But…but, what about, uh…Magnussen?” Oh, Christ, Magnussen! And the awful things he’d done to them!

“Charles Augustus Magnussen? The media mogul and blackmail extraordinaire? He won’t be bothering us, either.” John rubbed Sherlock’s forehead, and he noticed his hair was much shorter. Had they been forced to shave it when he was admitted here after the encounter on the roof? Where _was_ here?

“Sherlock, I spent four years risking my life to keep you safe. Half of what I did is classified, the rest I don’t want to talk about even if I could. You are _safe_ and nothing will change that. You are loved, always, and you never have to be alone again.”

“What did I _miss?”_ Sherlock couldn't begin to imagine what he’d missed about his unassuming, sweet flatmate. Well, that was just the problem, wasn’t it? John Watson was so good at getting people to underestimate him that when the truth came out, people dismissed it at their peril. He leant against John, cataloguing the sensation of his fatigues against bare skin and through the thin material of his hospital gown, the smell of him, the way it was different this morning. John always smelled of disinfectant soap, cheap neutral body wash, and tea, sometimes he smelled of gunpowder and cleaning oil. But this morning, all of those familiar scents were buried under nicotine, sweat, and the sharp smell of petrol. It was the smell of cigarettes that bothered him the most. Had John started smoking? Why? When? He had never smoked at Baker Street, Sherlock would have noticed for sure. Was that why he always seemed to run out of nicotine patches so quickly? It wasn’t  _just_ him using them? And maybe the smell of smoke on John’s clothes after a night at the pub wasn’t  _just_ from being tucked into a smokey corner booth or around a crowded table.

“Sherlock, love, you…Christ, you shouldn't have survived that day.” John’s hands were on his back and shoulders, bringing him back to the moment. Sherlock tensed, and gasped when he realised there was nothing there. No scars, no burns, nothing.

“It was all…in my head?”

“Every awful moment of it, love.” John smiled, his eyes bright with tears, “You were in a coma, Sherlock, and every day was torture. I hated leaving because I didn’t know if I’d come back to bury you or find you awake and causing trouble again.”

“Where…where did you go?”

“Mongolia, Canada, Nepal, France, Russia, Germany…”

“New Mexico?” Lestrade pitched in, eyes narrow, “And, uh…California.”

“Last stop was Serbia.” John shook his head, “Bad business it was, too.” As John listed off every place he’d been in the last four years, Sherlock realised something.

“Mycroft gave you my jobs.”

“Somebody had to do it.” John was sitting at Sherlock’s bedside again, rubbing his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s hand, giving him a good view of the ring on his left hand. That was a wedding ring, wasn’t it? But…not Mary’s. No, not Mary’s, that ring was for...someone else. But  _who_? It hurt a bit to think that John had still somehow moved on from him, but Sherlock couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like Sherlock had ever made his true affections and feelings for the gifted ex-soldier so clear. He hated that about himself right now, among many things he regretted.

“How long have you been Special Forces, John?” It wasn’t the question he  _wanted_ to ask, but it was an important question regardless.

“A while.”

“How long?” He asked hoarsely, leaning forward to touch John, running his fingers through blonde hair much shorter than it had ever been while they had lived together, streaked with more grey now than he was used to. Had John gone back to the Army? Why had he cut his hair regulation short? Why was he wearing fatigues again? Sherlock thought back on everything he knew about John Watson, everything he had learned about him:

Doctor, trained at Saint Bart’s, and King’s College London; gone to the Army right out of university due to family and financial troubles. Nine years of service before he was honourably discharged on account of being wounded in action and transferred home to London with few resources and no prospects and the worst case of misdiagnosed PTSD Sherlock had ever seen. His family did not speak to him, not then or now, his sister was an alcoholic who couldn't stay in rehab long enough to get the help she so desperately needed and his mother had remarried to a man who did not support the non-traditional sexualities of her two children. John’s biological father had been very much the same way before dying when John had been eight, and John had kept his sexuality a secret as he reached puberty and started to work himself out, but had suffered years of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of his step-father before escaping to university and the Army. But every hardship, every obstacle, had made John Watson the person he was. Little was known about John’s service, outside of public records, and Sherlock had never wanted to ask for the records he knew Mycroft had access to.

Not until now, not until he’d woken up in a hospital bed and found his best friend standing at the door, wearing khaki fatigues and sporting a military haircut with a danger in his eyes that Sherlock hadn’t seen before. A weariness, a wariness, a caution. There was tension in his sturdy frame. Sherlock tried to puzzle out how long John had been Special Forces, and how he could have missed that deducing him so long ago.

“Six years.”

“Sorry?” He realised that John was talking and looked at his flatmate.

“You asked. Six years.”

“Oh my God.” Sherlock gasped. John smiled, taking Sherlock’s hands in both of his, and leant in until their noses touched.

“You can thank your brother for getting me back into the Army, Sherlock.”

“But….why?”

“They needed someone with my…particular set of skills.” Sherlock saw a flash of…something in John’s eyes and tugged one hand free. He needed to touch. Contact was necessary, he wanted to touch and reassure himself that this wasn’t some twisted dream, that he wasn’t still asleep. John let him touch, which would have been so much easier if he wasn’t hooked up to so many machines.

“I spent four years tearing apart Moriarty’s networks, which included a few domestic hits.” John tapped his temple. “How’s your head?”

“Fuzzy.”

“Take these, it’ll help.” John dropped two paracetamol tablets into his hand and gave him a sip of water. Sherlock obediently swallowed the pills and watched John make a note of it on the chart. 

A small woman of mixed descent (Eastern European and Native American by best guess) wearing a lab coat and blue scrubs bustled into the room talking animatedly with Sherlock’s brother Mycroft, who looked his usual stuffy, impeccable self. Just…very tired. Very sad. Not normal things for the untouchable Iceman Holmes. The doctor introduced herself as Katriel Edsel, asked him all sorts of questions he had no interest in answering, made a few comments he didn’t appreciate, and disappeared again after what seemed like too long. John had answered most of her questions, which made Sherlock wonder just how observant he was. And how wrong he had been in his initial conclusion of John’s character. There were so many things about John that were mind-boggling.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You never answered my question.” Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his blanket once Doctor Edsel was gone, confused by so much of what he had woken up to, trying to reconcile what he had thought was real with the truth. John was not married and was unlikely ever to be so, at least to a woman. Instead, he had spent four years travelling all over the world hunting down links to Jim Moriarty’s criminal empire and dismantling it piece by piece. There seemed to be an awful lot of secrets about his flatmate that Sherlock hadn’t known about or deduced, which was very unlike him.

“Which one?” John leant his elbows on the mattress.

“How did I miss so much about you?”

“It wasn’t easy keeping it from you, Sherlock. I didn’t really mean to, and I’m sorry.” John twirled a pen, he hadn’t seen where it came from, with a skilled flick of his fingers, “Deliberate misdirection works.”

“I…suppose.” He chewed on his lip, thinking things over.

“I know that look. I take it your headache’s gone?”

“Hmm.”

“Figures. You’ll have intermittent headaches for a while, though, so don’t be surprised if it comes back again.” John smiled, “Which question do you want an answer to first?”

“Special Forces?”

“Six years. I was with the Army for ten years before I met you the first time, and six of those ten I was with Special Forces. That’s…how I got shot.”

“That’s why you got an honourable discharge! John, you should have gotten more recognition!”

“I did get more, I just don’t talk about it.” John was shy, it was cute. Cute? Had he just called his flatmate cute? What was wrong with him?

“How long?”

“I’ve got fourteen years of service under my belt now, Sherlock.”

“Oh my god, John!”

“What is it you’re always telling me about observation?” John’s eyes crinkled in that funny way of his. Sherlock covered his mouth with both hands, trying to process this new information.

“You’re a man of secrets, John Watson. An anomaly.” Sherlock folded his hands under his chin as best he could. “You’re smart, brilliant even, exceptionally gifted, and far too good at convincing me and everyone else that you’re just a tired war-dog struggling to live off of your meagre pension and make a place for yourself.”

“Would you have believed me if I told you the truth?”

“Probably not.”

“There you go.” John rubbed his hand across Sherlock’s abdomen, dragging his fingertips along the blanket, “I’m gonna ghost out of here, I need sleep and a hot shower, can you behave yourself while I’m gone?”

“I’ll try?”

“Good enough for me.” There was that smile again. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Sherlock, alright?”

“Okay.” He was reluctant to let John go, but he did. “John?”

“Yeah?” The stocky soldier turned at the door, smiling.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock. Take it easy, don’t piss off the nurses, yeah?”

“I make no promises.” He sniffed. John and Lestrade chuckled, rolled their eyes. It was quiet after John left, Lestrade and Mycroft didn’t stay much longer, and when he was completely alone, Sherlock went and did some serious housekeeping in his Mind Palace. There were things to delete and others that needed to be moved. He had to reorganise and shuffle data into proper rooms, boxes, drawers. Things needed to be reorganised in the rooms dedicated to John Watson, if he accomplished nothing else.

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to break this up into installments. I've done some minor editing and proofing, Grammarly is my friend. Enjoy!


End file.
